They
by Sunshinecackle
Summary: Patrick Hockstetter knew something was coming for him.


**Title:** They  
 **Author:** Donnie  
 **Fandom:** IT  
 **Setting:** Various  
 **Pairing:** None  
 **Characters:** Patrick Hockstetter, Patrick Hockstetter's Parents  
 **Genre:** Angst/Hurt/Comfort  
 **Rating:** T  
 **Chapters:** 1/1  
 **Word Count:** 1156  
 **Type of Work:** One-Shot  
 **Status:** Complete  
 **Warnings:** Violence, Gore, Delusions, Mental Health, Medication, Vent  
 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything.  
 **Summary:** Patrick Hockstetter knew something was coming for him.

 **AN:** This is very venty for me? I'm just not sure what to say about it, beyond the fact that I just really needed to get out some negative emotions and this somehow was what wanted out. I hope you guys enjoy!

 **They** ****

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Patrick Hockstetter knew he was the only thing in this entire world that was worth protecting. He was smart, he was stunning, he had power at his fingertips, he _was_ this entire world. Everything was an extension of him and had nothing to do with him all at once.

Vic, Henry and Belch were the best and worst parts of him, outwardly expressed in a way that made sense. In a way that, for all intents and purposes, made his world seem real for anything prowling on the outside. For all he knew, he was logged into a game of sorts and this was all was going to disappear when he closed his eyes on this day.

If there was one thing that Patrick hated because it was a rule set _for_ him, not _by_ him, it was that being alone was dangerous. At least that was why he had his friends. When he was with them, even just one at a time, they shielded him.

That thing, he could feel it everywhere he went. It swam in the shadows, melting in and out like some kind of mirage puddle. It was waiting, it was _torturing_ him by waiting, and it often left him feeling drained. Keeping his world safe from the things outside of it exhausted him, and at the end of the day, he just wanted to relax.

Of course, that didn't seem to be in the cards, tonight.

He was on edge, his skin pricked and eyes wide, manic, as he searched for the source of the loud banging down the hall. As a precaution, he punched the mirror in the hallway hard enough to shatter it, panicked by the sight of himself in the glass on the floor rather than his bloody knuckles. The sound would alert it, definitely, to his presence. He waited, not hearing anything, not _seeing_ anything, and proceeded to the room that had once been Avery's.

"I know-" He cleared his throat, hating the quaver in his voice, "I know you're he-"

The sudden laughter of a toy hiding somewhere in the room had him giving a loud shriek. It was toying with him! But he couldn't bring himself across the threshold. Anywhere else in this house, he would confront it, kill it if need be. But he wasn't about to mess Avery's room up. Nobody was allowed in that room, not even his parents.

Stepping back until he hit the wall behind him, the brunet gulped and groped for something to use as a weapon. He found a vase of fake flowers, grabbing it and dumping out the stupid cloth roses. A lurch of shadow had him bolting to his room, somewhere safe he could banish this thing in, and at first, it didn't seem to follow him. Crunching over the glass of the mirror, he ignored the sharp pain in his feet, instead, slamming into the door to his room open and crashing his bloody fists into the two mirrors there, and then the window.

Cold air hit him like a brick to the chest, dazing and confusing him at the same time. Now wasn't the time to run around like a chicken with his head cut off, though, so he turned briskly and found himself face to face with his slammed door.

"What the fuck?!" Clutching the vase to his chest in surprise, he threw it to the floor, scrambling for the bat he kept beside his bed. Holding it out in front of him like it was a sword, he stood with both legs spread apart on his bed, eyes wide. "Come on, come get me!" He shouted, eyes narrowing as he listened for any and all indications that someone was close.

But nothing happened. His challenge went unmet, and he stood there like a wobbly statue for what must have been twenty minutes. Finally, he lowered the bat, dropping to his knees and crawling off his bed carefully. Brandishing the bat once more, his eyelids narrowed as he started towards the hallway, kicking some dirty boxers out of the way. He'd clean his room later, maybe.

Sneaking down the hallway, poised to strike, movement to his left prompted him to swing and Patrick didn't pause to check who it was he was hitting before he leveled the bat into flesh with a wet thunk. Satisfied with hitting something, he gawked for a second as he watched his father fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. The shriek of his mother was the last thing that he heard.

-

Three days later, wrapped in a blanket and staring blankly at a blue and red speckled carpet he didn't recognize, Patrick returned somewhat to himself. He felt foggy and distant, and as he blinked and looked up, he frowned slightly. An odd sensation of numbness and almost stickiness of his muscles settled into his face, and he rubbed a hand through his greasy, dark hair, one side of his lip raising in disgust.

"Welcome to the world of the living." Adding to his confusion was a voice he didn't recognize, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he became more aware of the bright lights buzzing above him, "You've been a zombie for three days."

"Wha…?" Moving too much made his head swim, and he barely managed to get out of the chair without falling. Shuffling away, he held his arms tight to his body, a pain in the inside of one elbow making him look down. Bruised to hell and back from his IV, Patrick huffed a little, staring at a white board that had his name on it, along with the others on the unit. His name was written next to room number C136, along with a few empty boxes and an M on the far side, along with a woman's name. There were conversations going on around him, buzzing in his ears like flies he didn't care to swat away. The window to his left burned with the direct sunlight filtering into the room, and he bit his lip as he peered up at the nurse's station directly in front of him. Four nurses hung around the small folding table, writing in charts and chatting amongst themselves. A couple people in similar white and blue gowns to the one he wore shuffled about, one with a Styrofoam cup of sludge in hand.

He was quickly putting together that he was in a hospital.

Shambling to his room alone, he closed himself inside, falling onto the bed that wasn't made after assuming it was his. He didn't like to cry, but the tears flowed without his permission, and Patrick Hockstetter cried for what felt like days. Why was he here? He shouldn't be, and he knew that. But everyone acted like he was some kind of interactive art piece, the way they thought that they could almost touch him, or talk at him while he slumped along to his room. He couldn't remember what had brought him here, what had made him lose control so badly. _They_ must have been behind this, but he couldn't bring himself to focus on those thoughts. In fact, he couldn't focus on anything. Everything felt surreal, like he was both living and dead, and even the exhaustion that came with crying couldn't help him to feel any better.

Patrick didn't know how long he lay around in bed, but it was long enough that he was called to lunch, where he isolated himself on purpose, not wanting to deal with these other people, if they could be called that. All he wanted was to leave. But that wasn't happening. Becoming aware of his situation made him fear that he was going to be tricked out of his godhood.

That was going to be the hardest part of this, he knew.

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 **AN:** There we go! Finally done. This might end up getting another part to it, who knows. Writing Patrick in this fic was so much fun? I had no idea it would be this good for me. Hope to see you again in the next one!


End file.
